Ravaged Expressions HP's 6th Year PreHBP
by celena murdock
Summary: Intrigue. Drama. Passion. Magic. Mystic. The thrills and pains of HP's 6th year with his friends and enemies.
1. Twilight Morning

This _was _my first ever fanfic!

I wrote it before the HBP came out, and thus, I'm not sure if I'll be finishing it. One thing I didn't like about HBP is that it was very vague and general and didn't go into a lot of detail in the story plot (in my opinion). Thus, I might finish my own version of HBP if I have people who actually want me to and if I ever get the time. Other than this paragraph, everything was written a while ago.

Summary:This story is about HP's 6th year, and I will try to be as true to Rowling's world and characters as possible. Besides using my own writing style, I will allow myself a certain significant change from Rowling's technique: I will be writing using an omniscient narrator perspective, and will focus in on other characters as well as Harry. As far as accuracy allows, I might in the future have a short relationship between Hermione and Draco Malfoy; particularly for insight into Draco's character, not at all buttered up, but harshly accurate (in my opinion, of course). However, the focus will be on Harry Potter's story.

Most probably, the rating of this story will increase in the future, as things get more intense.

Chapter One – Twilight Morning

At last, with much gusto, the sun plunged over the horizon of Little Whinging, marking the start of yet another long drawn-out hot summer day. The first ray of light to enter Private Drive, perched upon the unopened eyes of a young man with unkempt black hair. Harry Potter stirred slightly and groaned, turning to face away from the now brightly shining window. A few moments later, unable to fall back asleep, he cursed and stumbled over to draw the shades; on the way, he managed to trip over a wide variety of books and clothes which littered the floor. After closing the drapes on the approaching day, he practically leapt back onto his bed in order to avoid stepping on any more of his personal belongings. He sighed in satisfaction at the artificial twilight created in his room. For once, he had had a dreamless sleep and was unwilling for it to end. His content, however, was short-lived as, once thoroughly awake, Harry's thoughts began to drift back to the previous night.

_He had opened the window to allow the tranquil night breeze to wash across his face. He stood, unmoving, and mentally numb, with his eyes locked upon a single spot beneath a lamppost. Hour upon hour passed, and the light radiating from the streetlamp above shone continuously upon the pavement, slowly conjuring up a dark and foggy figure. The longer his eyes focused, the clearer the image became: an image of a past memory, a solitary black lab standing stately on an empty street. The picture became more and more substantial, willing itself into reality, until the constant dull throbbing of Harry's scar suddenly peaked. He grasped his forehead in pain, startled, and the illusion was banished. Overwhelmed by this desolation, he was unable to even cry, and collapsed on his bed. He closed his eyes, painfully aware of Hedwig's empty cage, and fell into a deep slumber. _

The miserable feelings of last night seeped inexorably back to him like gravel shifting into the pit of a newly stirred mine. Praying that this time there wouldn't be a cave-in, Harry sat up, put on his glasses, and attempted to move across the room. Because his scattered transfiguration papers on the floor prohibited movement, he went about the task of picking them up. The previous evening he had finished his homework for the summer and was currently contemplating how else he might fritter away the rest of his days trapped in his Uncle's house. Not to mention, he wondered, what could possibly occupy his mind thoroughly enough to keep it from traveling back to the Department of Mysteries and that fatal day in Dumbledore's office. Harry shook his head and went back to organizing his homework papers neatly in his trunk, so they wouldn't get lost.

'I wonder what would Ron say to me finishing with my work so early?', Harry thought. He almost managed an internal grin as he imagined Ron's scowl. Harry's lips actually upturned slightly as his imagination wandered further, to the probable triumphant expression upon Hermione's face which would result. Harry shook his head at the thought of them arguing over it.

"That's excellent Harry! You'll be able to bring your potions up to scratch now if you use your extra time to stud —"

"What do you mean excellent? With your study habits, Harry'll likely bloody kill himself. Not to mention, we don't need another antisocial book worm," Ron would interrupt, exasperation eminent.

"What do you mean antisocial?" Hermione voice would rise to a high-pitched shriek. "I am most certainly _not _antisocial! Are you insinuating that I don't have any other friends?!"

For once, his friends' bickering, so far away, seemed endearing. Even though he had felt distanced from them of late, Ron and Hermione were the only people who could help him forget, for a short time, that he was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. That his life and death had nothing to do with his free will or any choice of his own, but that he was merely a victim of Moirae's (the fates in Greek mythology) threads. At times he almost wished to curse Atropos, (cuts the threads of life in Greek mythology) or even bribe her not to fulfill his destiny. 'And yet, that would be selfish and cowardly. To sacrifice the world to attend to my own wellbeing.' Harry hung his head. There was a part of him that no longer cared. With Sirius gone, a part of Harry had died and could never be replaced. He'd lost his will to live, to fight, to carry on. And yet, what would happen to the rest of the world if he did nothing? His mind replayed a Halloween night of 15 years ago. He saw Voldemort brandishing his wand of phoenix feather, muttering forbidden words, and creating a flash of green light. However, instead of seeing his father's death replayed, Harry saw Ron's body fall to the floor and, with a whoosh of air from its lips, go still. He yelled aloud, briefly, before his trance ended, and he realized where he was. He whispered softly the names of his two best friends, "… Ron… Hermione…"

No, he did care. He would die before he allowed any harm to come to Ron or Hermione. Ironically, death would probably be his fate.

Glancing down at the floor, Harry's eyes rested upon a pile of letters from his friends and other members of The Order. Tonks' messy scrawl, Mrs. Weasley's fluid script, Professor Lupin's neat cursive, Hermione's upright printing, and Ron's excuse for the written word. A grave line crossed Harry's forehead as he narrowed his lips in conviction. He may have been born with a baneful existence, but he had a duty and he would fulfill it. These people, whom he cared about, worried about, and had learned to love, were the most important thing in the world to him; And yet, they only represented a miniscule sector of humanity. No matter what, Harry could let nothing happen to any of them or any other innocent bystanders. He would kill Voldemort. He had to. It was his destiny.


	2. Breakfast

Summary:This story is about HP's 6th year, and I will try to be as true to Rowling's world and characters as possible. Besides using my own writing style, I will allow myself a certain significant change from Rowling's technique: I will be writing using an omniscient narrator perspective, and will focus in on other characters as well as Harry. As far as accuracy allows, I might in the future have a short relationship between Hermione and Draco Malfoy; particularly for insight into Draco's character, not at all buttered up, but harshly accurate (in my opinion, of course). However, the focus will be on Harry Potter's story.

Most probably, the rating of this story will increase in the future, as things get more intense.

**Chapter Two – Breakfast**

Harry's thoughts and resolutions were abruptly interrupted by a loud cross between a snore and sniffle, followed by several noisy and sloppy-sounding coughs. In the other room, Dudley woke up and began cursing. Harry found slight amusement and irony in the similar foul manner, of which both he and his cousin had greeted the new day. Harry picked up the last bit of his finished work, packed it in his trunk, and shook himself slightly. He was finally prepared to engage in contact with his blood-relatives, and decided upon making for the kitchen, where they would all, surely, soon congregate. His face was firmly set, stern and grim, as he reached for the door handle.

Dudley's stream of swear words returned as he looked at the clock, which indicated the earliest hour he had seen all summer. Dudley's roars eventually reached the master bedroom of the house and Harry heard, in response, the shocked and remonstrating voice of his aunt choke out his cousin's name. The high pitch of Petunia's voice was highly aggravating to the ears, and undoubtedly, the cause of Vernon's arousal. For the third time, that morning, the bright sunrise was welcomed with a string of obscenities. Harry snorted in amusement, and Petunia's voice rose once again in the same manner, although directed to her husband. Vernon scowled and muttered something unintelligible to his wife.

"What was that you said?" Petunia asked menacingly.

Vernon, sensing danger, opened his eyes wide in apprehension and cowered, scooting over to the edge of the bed and trying to placate his wife. "Nothing, my dear, just saying good morning."

For a moment, Petunia retained her scowl, but quickly accepted his excuse with a cheesy smile and an abrupt "'morning". She leaned over and placed a swift kiss on Vernon's cheek, with her lips pursed tightly, making it, Vernon thought, as sharp and abrupt as a peck from the beak of one of those damned owls which always visited 'The Boy'. She turned around and got up as Vernon wrinkled his forehead in distaste and rubbed the spot where she'd kissed him. He drew his large body lethargically out of bed, still grumbling, as Petunia briskly changed, walked out of the room, and unintentionally slammed the door behind her. Vernon languidly changed and followed his wife after a short interval.

Harry opened his door slightly, squeezed through the small opening into the hallway, and mutedly shut the door. His gait, as he made his way towards the stairs, emanated an inner strength, and there seemed to be careful consideration behind each footfall. Reminiscent of a Doric column, it seemed that he would not be moved from his path, and would remain through the rise and fall of many civilizations. However, upon noticing his Aunt Petunia, making her way swiftly towards the kitchen, he flattened himself against the wall to let her pass, somehow, not at all diminishing the effect of his apparent strength and resolve; Perhaps a Greco pillar was not an apt analogy for Harry Potter. Harry was not unwavering, not unmoved. He swayed viciously with the harsh winds, but always remained standing. Although inches from the rocky bottom, he remained: torn, broken, but existing sturdily.

Harry remained against the wall, waiting for his uncle to follow in his wife's steps towards the kitchen. As predicted, Vernon emerged from his room and walked by, making note of Harry by glaring at him warily along the way. As Harry was about to start forward once more, Petunia's voice resounded from downstairs, sickeningly sweet, "Duddy, dear, please come down for breakfast." Yet again, Harry stepped aside as the door to his cousin's room opened, revealing a groggy and grouchy-faced Dudley. He stomped out of his room, and upon seeing Harry standing there, quickened his pace, avoiding eye contact.

Eventually, Harry entered the kitchen, took a plate and a piece of bacon from the counter, and sat down at the table where his family currently resided. Vernon snorted in derision, and appeared uncomfortable that his nephew had joined them. This discomfort, however, seemed different than his usual discontent at Harry's wizarding background; Vernon looked as though he had been forced to witness a secret of Harry's which he did not fully understand, nor did he desire to in the slightest. Glancing at his aunt and cousin, Harry noted similar expressions upon their faces, each feeling the same unease, but reacting to it in different manners. Petunia's eyes shiftily darted to different points on the table, occasionally glancing at either Harry or Vernon. Dudley pointedly looked between his mother and father, and occasionally at Harry, as if hoping that they would console his anxiety and deny any change in his perfect life. Understanding the reason behind their odd behavior, Harry made an angry noise, pushed away from the table sharply, grabbed his piece of bacon, and stormed up to his room, leaving the inhabitants of the kitchen utterly confounded.

Throwing himself on his bed, Harry steamed in anger. He was no longer certain of who or what the anger was mostly directed towards, but contented himself by directing it at himself. Of course he knew what they were uncomfortable about. Who wouldn't be uncomfortable after hearing some of Harry's darkest demons replayed at night while he slept? Harry's world was spiraling insanely out of control. Not only did he have no control of his destiny, but apparently he also had no command over the emissions from his mouth or his torrents of emotions. He was never safe from them, not even when he dreamed.

Finally calming down, Harry picked up the last bit of his finished work, packed it in his trunk, and looked up at the sound of wings. Expecting Hedwig, his face dropped slightly as a Great Horned Owl dropped an official looking envelope at his feet and swept away. Harry bent down and opened the envelope, unconcernedly taking out his OWL results. For a second time, upon hearing the sound of wings, Harry looked up as Hedwig returned. He put down the paper he had been holding, without even looking at it, and went over to stroke her. At Privete Drive, Hedwig was the one thing that kept Harry sane; she was his one reminder that he wasn't alone in this world, and that someday … someday everything might just turn out alright.

After Hedwig nudged him with her beak, reassuring Harry that he wasn't forgotten, he sat back town to look at this OWL results.


	3. OWLs

Summary:This story is about HP's 6th year, and I will try to be as true to Rowling's world and characters as possible. Besides using my own writing style, I will allow myself a certain significant change from Rowling's technique: I will be writing using an omniscient narrator perspective, and will focus in on other characters as well as Harry. As far as accuracy allows, I might in the future have a short relationship between Hermione and Draco Malfoy; particularly for insight into Draco's character, not at all buttered up, but harshly accurate (in my opinion, of course). However, the focus will be on Harry Potter's story.

Most probably, the rating of this story will increase in the future, as things get more intense.

Chapter Three – OWLs

He looked over the paper in indifference.

Astronomy – 'Acceptable'

Care of Magical Creatures – 'Outstanding'

Charms – 'Outstanding'

Defense Against the Dark Arts – 'Outstanding'

Divination – 'Poor'

Herbology – 'Exceeds Expectations'

History of Magic – 'Dreadful'

Potions – 'Exceeds Expectations'

Transfiguration – 'Exceeds Expectations'

Harry mildly acknowledged his 'Exceeds Expectations' in potions, and detachedly realized that he no longer had a chance of becoming an auror. For that, he would need six NEWTS. Harry listed on his fingers, the classes he would be taking next year: NEWT level Care of Magical Creatures, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Transfiguration. Unless, perchance, the NEWT level Astronomy class accepted an 'acceptable' grade. He had never bothered to find out the marks needed for astronomy; he never thought he would need it. And even if Harry were able to take NEWT Astronomy, thereby completing the minimum requirements for an auror, it was doubtless they would accept anyone with the _minimum _requirements, not to mention anyone lacking in advanced training in Potions. No use contemplating that until it was upon him.

At least, it seemed, he would no longer have Snape for a teacher.

Although distantly cheered by this prospect, thinking of Snape evoked, seemingly the only emotion he had left, anger.

Harry's hatred towards Snape had increased triple fold, though he had yet to come up with an adequate excuse for it. Snape was Harry's outlet, sufficiently involved in both Sirius' death and Voldemort's Death Eaters to take much of the blame for anything concerning either. If Harry had ever taken the time to think about it, he probably would have had to relent to the fact that these horrors of his life were, honestly, not Snape's fault. However, at least in this self-created ignorance, Harry had found a way of survival; how could he keep from hating himself, if not by diverting his pain and anger towards another. Another who, more or less, welcomed it.

Harry laid, inert, in his room, alternating between disturbing or dreary thoughts, a sort of mindless trance, bits of sleep, and horrifying nightmares for the next thirty-six hours.

It wasn't until he heard a loud banging on his bedroom door, followed by the crash of his door banging opening against the wall, that Harry finally noticed a sharp pain and growl coming from his stomach. Petunia, standing in the doorway, hands upon her hips, softly glared at him, with a slight undercurrent of emotion that deftly surprised him.

"I _don't_ want you dying of starvation in _this_ house. Those … _things_," she shook her head deprecatingly, "will blame us!"

On his back, Harry shifted to a half-sitting position placing his weight on his elbows, and simply looked at his aunt with seemingly no emotion. Petunia walked over to his bed, intoned, "UP!", and made shooing motions with her hands for him to get up and leave the room. Harry listlessly obeyed.

As 4 Privet Drive came more into focus, Harry, out of habit more than anything else, internally cursed the house of his childhood misery.

What he wouldn't do to leave here forever… Harry sighed. However, there was a legitimate reason for his presence here. Therefore, the best he could do was to wait until he could leave for the rest of the summer.

Harry hoped that before the month was out and, he grimaced, his birthday arrived, he would be able to see the Weasleys again, cutting short his stay with the Dursleys to just over a month. Although, he was forced to admit that – overlooking his previous biases and the extenuating circumstances of Sirius' death and the prophesy – the Dursleys hadn't been particularly awful this summer. Nevertheless, his stay was far from enjoyable, and he was quite anxious to leave.

As a matter of fact, he had been mildly surprised at his Aunt's behavior. Vernon and Dudley had been quite as unpleasant as ever, though somewhat subdued by Moody's threat. But Petunia, albeit she usually kept up her unconcerned demeanor, seemed to be almost worried by her nephew's withdrawn and indifferent attitude. It wasn't that she was any kinder to Harry, and when she asked if he'd written "those freaks", it certainly had nothing to do with any anxiety for his wellbeing. However, this evening was not the first time she had shoed him out of his stupor, in his bedroom, to eat.

Occasionally, Harry could have sworn he saw an odd expression on her face which had nothing to do with him being a wizard or her sister's son. Oddly, at times like these, Harry had occasion to wonder what was the truth reason lying behind Petunia's hatred for her sister. Perhaps it was merely jealousy which caused Petunia to have despised his mother so, and because this was such a menial reason, she might have allowed herself a small bit of compassion towards Harry. Or, maybe, as was more likely, the root of her loathing was fear. Fear of what she could never understand; fear of the unknown. If so, the miniscule amount of compassion she had been showing might have been due to her comprehension that the reason for Harry's behavior was loss of a loved one. This explanation was, surely, mundane enough to allow her at least limited understanding, and therefore reprieve from her fear.

Whatever the reason for her concern, Harry was somewhat grateful for the times when she shooed him out of his room because it reminded him that no matter how painful, eventually life will go on, Sirius or no Sirius, prophesy or no prophesy.

Harry resignedly followed Petunia into the kitchen, and sat down at the table for dinner, ignoring any of the stares and glares aimed at him by his family. As Petunia laid out on the table a steaming plate of Roast Beef, Harry's stomach gave another uncomfortable twixt. After Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley had helped themselves to the condiments, Harry – for the first time since he'd returned to Privet Drive – filled his plate to the brink with food. His aunt and uncle raised their eyebrows and Vernon scowled.

"Gonna eat us out of house and home, huh? Boy?"

Harry pointedly glanced at Dudley who was ravishing his plate of food with the intensity of a starved wolf, and then ignoring Vernon, turned his face downward to the vicinity of his food. He began to eat, very slowly, as Petunia started up a conversation with her husband about some new neighbor in the block. Eventually, the three family members finished eating and trickled out of the kitchen, sending a few glares Harry's way, as he just began to start on the second half of his plate.

Alone in the kitchen now, he poked and prodded his meal, not feeling quite up to finishing it. Finally, he gave up, threw the rest away, and washed his plate. Not in the mood to return to his room, Harry decided to slip outside.

Wary of the Dursleys, still digesting their food in front of the television, he stealthily slipped down the hallway towards the door. For once, he appreciated the Dursley's compulsive neatness; the front door was well-oiled and shouldn't be too hard to slip through unnoticed.

He was certain Vernon and Petunia would assume he was in his bedroom again, and they certainly wouldn't bother to ascertain this hypothesis before baring the front door to intruders. However, Harry recalled them informing Dudley a few days ago, about a key hidden outside in a flower pot, in case they were late returning in the evening. Harry, of course, didn't know of the key's exact location, but was certain he'd be able to find it before the sun rose and they got out of bed. It wasn't as though he'd miss the sleep anyways. At least he'd be free of the dreams for a few hours.

Gradually opening the front door, Harry bit by bit received a view of the cold street. Stepping out, he shut the door silently behind him, and stood for the first time, outside, since he returned to Little Surrey. His knees were suddenly weak, and he had to lean against the edge of the house to regain his balance and to allow his eyes to focus again.

Once he regained his composure, Harry abruptly set off down the street at a fast pace. The sudden change in manner, left Harry's unseen observer with the impression that he was trying to escape his own shadow.

(…to be continued)


End file.
